On Monday, they sent her home in a Town Car. She asked the driver to take the coastal route. She loved Carmel and Big Sur. They stopped at coffee shops, and ate club sandwiches and fries.
From her backseat nest, Lisanne caught up on newspapers and magazines. One of the ads featured a gorgeous, buff young black girl.
Shanté puts all kinds of heat on the world’s torturers. And then she hits the gym. Shanté is a member of Amnesty International. Every month, Shanté sends e-mails to world leaders, urging them to stop torturing and killing the prisoners in their jails.
Torturers worldwide wish they never heard of Shanté Smalls.
She read an article in The New York Times about people who have recurrent infections acquired in hospitals, mostly from health-care workers who neglected to wash their hands. The infections were of the type that could no longer be cured by antibiotics. One of the sick persons was an older woman whose sternum had been eaten away by bacteria, and now whenever she went for a drive she had to wear a bulletproof vest because if she got in an accident her chest would be crushed by the air bag. Another article was about a little Jewish girl who was snatched from her crib and killed by a black bear in the Catskills. On the next page was a financial ad with the head of a big black bear staring out. “Are you managing the bear?” read the copy. “Or is the bear managing you?”
• • •
LISANNE VISITED THE Bel-Air home office of Dr. Calliope Krohn-Markowitz, Holocaust survivor and legendary shrink to the stars. Roslynn Loewenstein, a client for years, had arranged it.
“Did you ever lose control like that before?”
“You mean,” said Lisanne, embarrassed, “on the plane?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head.
“Were you a bed wetter, Lisanne?”
Again, a modest shake of the head.
“You know, all kinds of things happen — to our bodies — when we fear for our lives. When that fear is genuine. Right now, there’s a disconnect. Have you heard of a ‘false positive’? When a test comes back positive but it’s actually negative? Well, right now I think you’re dealing with lots of false positives. You’ve got to replace the faulty wiring, so to speak. I can certainly help you with that.”
“How?” She hadn’t understood a word of what the woman had said.
“There are a number of ways,” said Calliope, assuredly.
“Drugs?”
“Medication is one avenue. In that regard, I’d like you to see a friend of mine, a very talented psychopharmacologist.”
“Can’t you give me something?”
“I don’t prescribe.” She paused. “We can also try hypnosis. I’ve had phenomenal results. I like a multidirectional approach. We can do things on a practical plane, no pun intended! There’s a wonderful class — I think they have one right here at LAX, we’ll check the Internet — to overcome flying phobias. I’ve known many, many people who’ve taken that course and now fly like banshees.”
“I know one way to get over my fear.”
“What’s that?”
“Not fly,” said Lisanne, smiling.
“That is a solution,” said Calliope, pleased that her patient had lightened up. “I won’t even say it’s not valid. We all make choices; that is our prerogative. We do what is best for us. To survive. But I think, Lisanne, that with you there are some other issues. What we call a constellation. Your crisis on the plane might be an indicator that it’s time you faced some of those issues, head-on. I want you to visit my friend — and think about what we spoke of today. If you decide you’d like to come back, then we can do some exploring.”
Cadillac Escapade
TULA PULLED THE Escalade out of the drive. To the casual observer, he was alone.
“OK, keep hide now!” he said.
“This is too goddamn weird!” said Kit excitedly from the back.
They were under a Mexican blanket; he smelled Cela’s warm, giggly exhalations. It brought him all the way back to their preteen make-out sessions.
“Kit, it was your idea!” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, cockily. “You’re fuckin right. Time to go to the fuckin mall! Get E! channel more shit for their documental!”
“You are such a wack job,” she said, tweaking his rib cage. “You are such a wacky goofball.”
He squirmed and spasmed at the tickle, then put a thumb in her side, sending her into contortions. Tula gravely shushed as they approached the guard at the barricade. Then Cela shushed Kit, clenching his fingers to neutralize him. It was all so sexy. As the car slowed they grew seriously still and hot-breathed, like children during the critical part of a game.
The rent-a-cop waved Tula through. They rolled past the crowd of fans, photogs, and media trucks.
Once they were in the clear, Kit started singing, “Tommy, can you hear me?” He replaced Tommy with Tula, and Cela had a fresh conniption.
A rogue paparazzo grew suspicious. He ducked under the everpresent WE LOVE YOU GET WELL SOON banner and broke away, discreetly slipping into a Corolla. He accelerated and drew closer. When Kit lifted his head to take a peek at the world, the freelancer saw him and gave spirited chase. Tula muttered Fijian expletives then upshifted into Bad Boys movie maneuvers. The bodyguard, extracautious because his charges were unsecured, reveled in finally being able to do what he was paid for.
Rubber was peeled; corners sharply taken; horns honked; accidents barely averted. Kit and Cela went gleefully bonkers, cheering Tula on. The driver was proficient, hyperconcentrated and adrenalized, his sweaty, scarily resolute, block-headed, thick-necked countenance thrilling them to no end. Then it was over as unexpectedly as it had begun — the paparazzo’s car flipping onto its back like a bug.
“Oh my God,” said Cela, aghast, looking back. “Do you think he’s hurt?”
Tula slowed, and peered in the rearview. The Corolla had toppled again in slo-mo, absurdly righting itself. Its owner stared ahead in a daze.
“No,” he assessed. “Just shook up.”
“Good job!” said Kit. “Good job, Odd Job!”
“Should we go back?” asked Cela.
“No!” said Tula. “No go back! Not our fault!”
“Girl,” said Kit, jokily somber. “You can’t go home again.”
“He just shook up,” said Tula, with a parting glance before motoring on. A pedestrian helped the pursuer from his car; he was already walking under his own power.
Kit put on an Elvis-sneer, singing, “All shook up! Ooh hoo hoo. Ooh hoo. Ay yeah!”
Everyone — even Tula — cracked up.
• • •
THROUGH THE COLD bright Riverside Galleria, wide-eyed.
Holding hands — delirious fugitives.
Kit, unchained. Mall, uncrowded.
The occasional look of stunned recognition from passersby cum well-wishers.
“Wow wow wow!” yelps Kit.
The freedom of it. The old feelings of it.
The spatial newness. Nowness. Wowness.